


Enter the Hero

by wintermelonbubbletea, writerinthedark (wintermelonbubbletea)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Action, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Explosions, Fire, Flame Alchemy, Gen, Ishbal | Ishval, Ishval Civil War, Military, Mustang's Team, Original Character(s), Past Violence, Post-Canon, Post-Promised Day, Post-War, Rebellion, Team Mustang - Freeform, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:54:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27992583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintermelonbubbletea/pseuds/wintermelonbubbletea, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintermelonbubbletea/pseuds/writerinthedark
Summary: Brigadier General Roy Mustang is known by many names, but there is one title he will never forget: the Hero of Ishval.Note: I’ll update the tags and ratings along the way.
Relationships: Heymans Breda & Vato Falman & Kain Fuery & Jean Havoc & Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang, Miles & Scar (Fullmetal Alchemist), Olivier Mira Armstrong & Miles, Olivier Mira Armstrong/Miles, Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang, Roy Mustang & Team Mustang
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	1. The Hero of Ishval Returns (Prologue)

“Well, this is still better than expected,” a tall, blonde male military officer muttered while his teeth pressed an unlit cigarette. His blue eyes focused on his commander, a raven-haired general.

Brigadier General Roy Mustang’s involvement in war-torn Ishval was equally controversial and historic, inasmuch as it was unprecedented. Through a snap of his fingers, he could and _did_ incinerate a hundred people. His reputation as a “hero” was two-pronged: by killing innocent lives, the war ended as soon as it could, saving a number of military personnel from possible death.

His return to Ishval understandably drew the attention of the general public. Just as when his name was first made known in the dry region, controversy and history marred his attendance anew.

Journalists stood among the throngs of civilians, mostly Ishvalan women and children, awaiting his arrival. Mustang kept his usual stern look and posture in official functions, cognizant what impression his photographs, if they go to press, would make. Despite the calculated exterior, however, something else lingered in his presence. _Was it insecurity, fear, or doubt?_ No one noticed — not even the young war veteran himself — except his loyal adjutant, Captain Riza Hawkeye, who was following him one step behind.

“At least, they’re welcoming us,” First Lieutenant Jean Havoc continued.

“You call this a welcome?” First Lieutenant Heymans Breda sneered, his fingers curled up tightly on the pockets of his ironed uniform. “Look at them. They’re eyeing us as if we’re predators. Someone from the higher-ups might as well have coerced them to stand there on the roadside. These Ishvalans don’t even have to say it out loud. It’s obvious they would rather have us leave.”

Mustang’s retinue, all dressed in crisp military uniforms, reminded the Ishvalans of the state-backed genocide that killed their loved ones. Their eyes brimmed with unease. Only a few men stood among the crowd. Many fathers and sons chose death from a one-sided fight against the Amestrisian military if it meant more time for their mothers, sisters, and children to evacuate. Only the young, who were too little or weren’t born yet when the civil war happened, could risk a smile.

They had every reason to feel fear and disgust. The mere mention of Mustang’s and Hawkeye’s names were enough to send shivers down one’s spine. The Flame Alchemist and the sniper were instrumental in ensuring no one survived the extermination campaign.

“Yes, this is better than expected,” the lone female officer in the team said. “These people mustered the courage to be out in the open before armed personnel. That means they have hope.”

The busy city of Falhor — known for the trade of Xingese exports, homegrown Ishvalan products, and Amestrisian automail supplies — was reduced to rubble when the military government launched an offensive to quell the civil unrest. 

Falhor is the city bordering the Ishval region from the rest of Amestris, so it was naturally one of the most devastated areas from the war. Residents who were mostly merchants and had no knowledge of military defense were easily taken out. All that was left in what once was a bustling commercial district were sturdy buildings.

The remaining establishments still had roofs and standing walls. Even then, the windows of the sun-dried structures were mostly patched with torn fabric or blocks of wood. Colorful shop signs lost their vibrance; those that still hang had missing letters while the others were half-buried in the sand.

The military unit continued advancing on the main road, feeling and reeling from the unspoken burden of their spectators’ distrust, until they met at the end of the procession Ishval’s chief warrior-priest. 

“Alas, you have returned,” he said, as he motioned the visitors to take their places on the other side of the makeshift stage that was set up specifically for the day’s ceremonies.

“Welcome back, Hero of Ishval.”

Mustang was sure his Ishvalan counterpart meant no disrespect, but he seethed at the meaning of those words. He bit his tongue to hide his displeasure.

“Let’s begin.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I am not a native English speaker, but I’m really trying to improve my writing. I hope what I’d written so far is alright. I’ve never had a beta, so if anyone would gladly volunteer, I will be more than grateful!
> 
> I see this chapter as some kind of a prologue, and I do hope it sets the tone for the rest of the story. It’s just that I wrote a draft of this — before I even knew what I wanted to do with this story and before I made an outline of this work — and I didn’t want my effort to go to waste.
> 
> So far, I have plotted up to about ten chapters in this fan fiction. Beyond that point, I’m not quite sure yet where the story is headed. The actual process of writing is tedious and I’m quite busy in real life, so I’m not sure how often I can make progress here. 
> 
> This is my first long-form Fullmetal Alchemist fan fiction, so please leave a comment and say hi. I need all the encouragement and feedback I can get! 🥺 And thanks for reading!


	2. Inferno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brigadier General Roy Mustang knew better than to use alchemy on his first day as the Ishvalan restoration czar, but it couldn’t be helped. If he were to save lives, an inferno was due.

The furious Falhorian afternoon sun only exacerbated the crowd’s discomfort. As its prickly warmth tortured the skin, the Ishvalans’ resurfacing trauma bonded with the day’s physical unease, like sacrilegious alchemic reconstructions that were against the teachings of the creator-god Ishvala.

Brigadier General Roy Mustang of the Amestrisian military rose from the spectating audience’s right side of the wooden platform that was as meticulously as it was haphazardly built. Until that moment, it was the perfect representation of the young general’s relationship with the annexed region: the masterful craftsmanship symbolized the Ishvalans’ hope for amity and concord with Amestris, yet the untidy finishing manifested their reservation and hesitation with the deal.

A life lost is one too many, people said. But no one cared to count deaths during the Ishvalan civil war.

Cameras began clicking as an older, brown-skinned man with silver locks tied in a low ponytail climbed from the other end of the stage. His melancholy red eyes betrayed the encouraging smile plastered on his face. To his exasperated fellowmen who for years bore the same eyes, however, even the faintest flash of smile before their brethren’s killers was reassuring.

This was Grand Cleric Omid Patel’s first public appearance since he went into hiding in the wilderness of the eastern region, making this event even more historic. Ishvalans had been living in squalor in hidden alleyways and forgotten districts throughout the country since their ancestral homes were bombed and burned, and reorganization seemed more like a myth than a possibility. Patel was the successor of Logue Lowe, who in the midst of the brutal campaign would have traded his own life to save thousands of Ishvalans, but whom the late fuhrer King Bradley had ordered killed. That day, his extended arm was a picture of somber hope. Somber, yes, but hope, nonetheless.

History watched with bated breath as Mustang’s bare right hand met that of his counterpart. Everyone understood that the gentlemen’s gesture was more than a ceremonial formality to launch the Ishvalan restoration program. It was a handshake ending an era both for a country long stricken with civil unrest and a region reeling from brazen massacre.

As it happened, not only did the Ishvalans’ anxious stares softened, but the stationed uniformed personnel also relieved the tension in their stance. Right then, Mustang knew he made the right decision of leaving his white ignition gloves in their headquarters. Not that he needed them, anyway, when his dependable righthand officer stood next to him, watching his back.

“It harks back to the memories of genocide,” he remembered First Lieutenant Heymans Breda saying. “Not exactly a good first impression to make when our primary goal is earning their trust.”

The two symbols of Ishvalan peace exited stage left together, the same side where Patel rose from the shadows — a contrast to how the official program began just moments ago with the military officer and the high priest ascending from polar ends of the makeshift platform. It was yet another deliberate detail to strengthen the new fuhrership’s resolve for unity: Ishval welcoming Astremis to their side.

Captain Riza Hawkeye, also a veteran of the Ishvalan civil war, guarded the men as they were cast into the background of the festivities — answering questions from the press who left immediately after their curiosity was satiated then entertaining congratulatory remarks from good-willed strangers — when rapid gunfire tore the afternoon’s cacophony. Hawkeye immediately turned to Warrant Officer Kain Fuery, signalling the younger man to secure the Ishvalan leader. With a set of headphones on his ears that were connected to a bulky communications device that he wore on his back, Fuery responded with a nod and led the chief prophet to an inconspicuous staircase that opened to an underground bomb shelter.

Patel followed without doubt and delay. In his periphery, he could see other military officers directing Ishvalans to predetermined escape routes as his two previous escorts faded into the disarrayed crowd.

Mustang and Hawkeye, now a distinguished formidable tandem since the public got wind of the events of Promised Day, recouped their command at the frontlines. Unknown men covered in white desert coats that obscured everything about them but their eyes, numbered as many as a platoon, were launching artillery and mortar fires towards the venue of the ceremony. They missed the event, but whether or not it was part of their plans could not be ascertained. 

The military had, at least, evacuated the audience from the earlier activities. Mustang and his team anticipated that the ceremony would be met with some resistance, so they had strategized for a possible exodus of civilians. What they hadn’t expected was the volume of insurgent forces.

So far, no fatalities had been reported from the military side, save from a few minor injuries. The attack, it seemed, was directed not to anyone in particular but to the few remaining structures in the town of Falhor. Any casualties would be collateral damage.

Mustang cringed at the thought of having to begin his historic initiative with infrastructure projects for a town that didn’t need much of it, which meant more budget proposals than he had previously prepared. He raised his left hand before Hawkeye, and, even without a verbal command, she understood what was being asked of her. The captain pulled out a pair of pyrotex gloves embroidered with a red transmutation circle and handed them over to his superior officer. Mustang hadn’t brought the gloves himself, as was agreed upon during the planning sessions for the day’s event, because he was confident his long-time aide would bring a pair for him _just in case_ , anyway.

The general raised his hands and snapped his fingers. Within seconds, a wall of fire about five meters high blocked the town’s borders from the rebels’ attacks. Bullets and mortar rounds melt at the high heat before they could even penetrate the alchemist’s dancing flame. Suddenly, the burning afternoon sun paled in comparison to the hellfire demarcating the two armed groups. Controlled chaos had begun, both in the borders of the Ishvalan territory and in Mustang’s mind. _Soon after his symbolic welcome in Ishval, how could he open the wounds of the past?_

Military officials who, until then, had only heard stories of the Flame Alchemist’s abilities were stunned by the display. But even if they had been deployed with him in the Ishvalan civil war, had witnessed his fight against homunculi Lust and Envy, or had taken part in the coup d’etat at Central, they couldn’t have expected the extent of the commanding officer’s powerful alchemy.

It was an open secret that Mustang skipped the annual evaluations for state-licensed alchemists because it was believed he had perfected flame alchemy. If anyone needed further proof of such a claim, this would be it.

Seeing how his superior’s flame once again blazed in Ishval, the blonde First Lieutenant Jean Havoc couldn't help but snicker. “What a show-off!” 

“And here I thought you wouldn’t want to mar your first day as the Ishvalan restoration czar with alchemy,” Havoc grinned, both teasing and thanking his commanding officer. He knew the general only wanted to prevent further damages to the war-stricken town and allay the possibility of bloodshed. Not everyone understood that Mustang would rather risk his reputation than lose his subordinates.

The commanding officer furrowed his brows at Havoc’s taunting, though his eyes remained locked at the raging inferno he was commandeering. Even a momentary lapse in judgment could spell death for everyone within a 10-kilometer radius, and he couldn’t risk averting his focus. 

But only the military acknowledged the necessity and heroism of the howling conflagration before them. The Ishvalans who witnessed the raging blaze as they were being prompted towards underground shelters could only quake in fear.

Through hushed words, worries spread that the afternoon’s relatively peaceful ceremony was all a front to mask another series of brazen killings. 

“I can’t believe he was assigned to lead the restoration efforts. He’s a monster!” uttered a woman named Lori, hugging her nine-year-old boy Leroy tightly. The mother and son managed to escape the Ishvalan conflict only because her husband and sons bravely faced the advancing Amestrisian troops.

The farmer Hakim, the only surviving bearer of his forefathers’ name, seconded: “He killed my family with a snap of his fingers! His fire didn’t even leave a corpse I could grieve. What a heartless man!” 

“I barely survived his attack! I was saved only because a wall collapsed over me and I pretended to be dead when the clean-up team arrived,” shared Hank, whose Xingese father and Ishvalan mother both perished before him.

“Could this bunker be our graves?” cried orphaned twins, Pepot and Pritha. While in hiding during the extermination campaign, they vowed to never leave each other’s side. 

“Ain’t that convenient for them? No witnesses. No damages,” feared the elder Oleos, who had spent nearly his entire life in an autonomous Ishval. 

Hearing the murmurs even over his headphones, the team’s communications specialist knew he had to do something to dispel the unfounded rumors before they became indiscernible lies. An uncorrected lie, through repetition, would be accepted as the truth. Fuery came up with a plan when an injured brother-in-arms was brought down to the shelter.

“Second Lieutenant, sir,” Fuery shouted loud enough so that the distrustful Ishvalans could hear him and turn their attention to what he was confident would change their minds. “What’s happening out there?”

“We’re being attacked by unknown dissidents,” First Lieutenant Vickers said, as he writhed in pain for his gunshot wound in the abdomen. “The general drew a wall of fire with his alchemy to block the attack.”

The Ishvalans held their breaths. Fuery waited for the clincher.

“But don’t worry, officer,” he continued. “We’re safe here. Nothing gets past the Flame’s flame.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read somewhere that, aside from the chief priest Logue Lowe, no one among the Ishvalans was given a proper name — as if they’re dispensable human beings. So, I wanted to identify my Ishvalan characters, and I used a name generator to help me do that. 
> 
> “Omid” is a Persian name that means hope, while “Patel” has Indian roots and denotes ownership. Lori, Leroy, Hakim, Hank, Pepot, Pritha, and Oleos are random names, some of which I based on real persons.
> 
> True to Fullmetal Alchemist tradition, I also named the wounded lieutenant after a military plane from the First World War. The Vickers Fighting Biplane 5 was the first operational fighter aircraft, purpose-built for air-to-air combat.
> 
> I haven’t decided yet if I would be giving these original characters more depth in this story. 
> 
> I’ve been meaning to write this story for a while, but it’s always been daunting to start. Whenever I get ideas, they always tend to grow into multiple chapters, and I’ve never really thought I have it in me to pen them down until now.
> 
> Having said that — I’m intent on finishing this fan fiction, so I need all the encouragement I could get. Please send me feedback, suggestions, anything else under the sun! Let me know what you like so far, what isn’t working for some reason, and what can be improved. Please help this newbie FMA fan and writer out. (uwu)


	3. Sniper’s Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fire that saved the military had to be extinguished before it got out of bounds. No one could foretell what would happen next.

_Nothing gets past the Flame's flame._

Dissidents continued firing at the military’s side, but any artillery and mortar melted to oblivion — as if they never existed in the first place — at the touch of the alchemy-based, literal firewall.

Those who served during the Ishvalan war could be classified into two kinds: the majority, who refused to talk about it, and the few who were loud and proud of their involvement in the extermination of what they considered lesser persons.

Despite, and perhaps because of, the silence of the first kind of war veterans, rumors spread like wildfire of the prowess of the Flame Alchemist.

If the stories were to be believed: In the first few weeks of then-Major Roy Mustang’s tour of duty in Ishval, the military’s clean-up team that would arrive after the conflagration he initiated could, at least, recover some remains with varying degrees of burn. As the war trudged on, the death toll could no longer be trusted — not because of the exorbitant figures but because there were no more corpses to count. 

There was no question that whatever his flame kisses, extinguishes. All that existed to remember the lives lost, if fate favored them, was a rainfall of black and white dust.

Everyone acknowledged Mustang’s skills, though they never talked about it in the open. The young general’s reputation preceded himself. What caught everyone off-guard was how he could hold a fire for long. He had always attacked with a snap. Things exploded and sometimes the fire would get out of control, but no one — ever — saw him maintain the fire.

Even with his back against his subordinates, Mustang could sense their bated breaths. His alchemy earned despise or respect; it’s only one or the other. He could turn around anytime and face their curiosity, whether to dispel or to entertain the rumors, but he never cared to gloat about his alchemy because the bigger picture required his undivided attention.

In the scene he would keep replaying in his mind, the world had no need for his flames.

It’s one thing to start a fire; it’s another to keep it burning. And even that is a far cry from containing a fire within bounds. 

Otherwise, the fire will do what it does best: it takes and it takes, caring not what it burns along the way.

Mustang made people believe he had perfected flame alchemy, but the claim was more for himself, to assuage his own guilt for betraying the higher principles of his teacher and the youthful ideals of his teacher’s secret-keeper. Still, his curiosity and concern occasionally overtook his self-restraint, and he would make an effort to, at least, try and learn to control the fire, never thinking the need would arise — only hoping that if it ever does, he would be ready.

After exactly 10 minutes of tense monitoring, having established the uniformed personnelʼs safety from enemy attacks, the brigadier general gave his orders to proceed with the operation as planned. The only element amiss in this actualization of their strategies was Mustang’s use of fire alchemy.

Swift in his salute, Lieutenant Colonel Miles Armstrong was first to leave the front lines. He was the former adjutant and now husband to Lieutenant General Olivier Mira Armstrong, heiress to the old-rich and well-known family, after whom he takes his new last name. 

Despite the financial capacity and loud proclivity of the Armstrong family for grand and elaborate celebrations, both officers from the northern wall of Briggs wed in a discreet ceremony, within days since the incumbent Fuhrer amended the decades-old anti-fraternization laws. Only a select few knew and were invited to what ordinarily wouldʼve been a life-altering event — not even the state alchemist Alex, the female Armstrong’s younger brother, was made aware of the details — but it was certain neither wedding bands nor any other traditional coupling rituals were exchanged, with perhaps the exception of the male officer carrying the illustrious surname to mark their union. Even that, though, ran counter to convention. There was no question that the generalʼs last name would serve to protect her former right-hand officer, whose physical features could never betray his Ishvalan lineage. 

Following the lieutenant colonel was another Ishvalan known only by the moniker Scar. Despite his civilian — and formerly criminal — status, Scar earned from the fuhrership a special privilege to help in the restoration program, owing largely to his invaluable support in organizing Ishvalan civilians and ensuring that the alkahestry array was in the right place at the right time during the siege of the Central Command. 

Both red-eyed men retreated from the townʼs borders, where the remaining soldiers were organizing themselves, and headed to an unobtrusive route that could be used to transport the Ishvalan civilians and injured military officers to a more secure location towards the south of Falhor. Their mission: to ensure the safety of everyone in the bunker. 

First Lieutenant Heymans Breda ordered a group to inconspicuously position themselves at the eastern and southern fronts. While the eastern side of Falhor led to the dry desert, the military strategist maintained that they couldn’t afford to be too confident in the face of a revolt, no matter how small the insurgent forces may appear to be. The southern unit was ordered to veer away from the pre-planned escape route being secured by their two Ishvalan allies to avoid interception.

The paunchy lieutenant stood before his superior officer who only looked at him at the side of his eye. Mustang’s attention remained before the flames he was commandeering. Nobody except those closest to him would notice that the alchemic display had begun to drain his energy: sweat formed into beads on his forehead, his brows met as he strained to control the fire, and his hands were tense. 

Mustang responded to Breda’s customary salute with a subtle nod. The lieutenant, then, gestured to a squad to follow him to the western border, where they were to stand by for a possible attack. Breda passed by his more experienced officers, First Lieutenant Jean Havoc and Captain Riza Hawkeye, and the three exchanged a knowing glance. Without saying a word, they understood what needed to be done.

As this happened, Havoc rounded up several officers to cover for Mustang, who was standing right at the front and center of the inferno he conceived, in case any attack would go through the blockade of fire before them. The military men hid by twos and fours behind building walls, guns ready to take aim and shoot. It was unlikely to happen, but not impossible — and to shirk that responsibility was to risk their commander's life.

“Havoc!” Mustang barked. 

The blonde officer took out the cigarette stick dangling between his teeth and dropped it on the pavement, stomping out the fire with his military boot.

“Yes, chief?” He was never a man of formalities. Mustang spared a second to look at him, then turned his eyes back at the flames. 

“We will have to kill the fire soon,” the general said.

Havoc wondered how much longer Mustang could play with fire. The general hid every discomfort well, but there was no denying that the military’s main defense at that point was demanding more from him that he probably even acknowledged.

The desert wind had started blowing towards them. The lower the sun sank, the higher the risk of torching the town. _We will have to kill the fire soon._ No one could foretell what would happen once the blazing barricade subsides. Would the rebels have retreated or reinforced their numbers? They had to be prepared for what was uncertain.

Hearing this, Hawkeye left his superior’s right to stand before him. It was time she found her place.

“Sir, with your permission, I think I'd have to—”

“Granted, Captain,” Mustang cut her off, as if he had already known what she meant to say. “Find your station and tell us what’s on the other side.”

With Mustang’s alchemy, nothing from outside the town’s borders could get in, but this also hindered the military’s vantage to what’s beyond the deadly wall. 

The female sharpshooter snapped a salute, then paced towards a tall building. Before she could complete five long strides, Mustang called her back.

“Look after yourself, Captain.”

“Aye. You, too, sir.”

Hawkeye surveyed what once was a commercial area for a good site that would let her see through the flame alchemist’s fire while also keeping herself hidden. 

While the Amestrisian military came prepared for an insurgency, no one thought it possible for rebels to gather numbers and weapons. The alchemy was a last-minute move. If Mustang hadn't known better, the soldiers would find themselves caught in a crossfire with limited artillery and thousands of civilians to protect.

Finally, the Hawk’s Eye spotted a four-story building that was perfect for her nest.

It wasn’t the tallest standing building in Falhor, but all that she required to access the goings-on in the enemy lines was a good angle, just enough to see the dissidents’ movements and report them back to the team. 

Her vision never faltered: Complete the mission, but kill no one.  
  
Hawkeye set up her sniper rifle and began navigating through its crosshair. She tucked her hair behind her right ear, where she felt then clicked a button. Scratchy static rang through the earpiece.

“Captain?” a familiar voice asked. 

“Fuery, it’s me.”

The brigadier general and each team leader in this operation had their own earpiece and radio, allowing for direct contact with the communications officer Kain Fuery but not to any of the other officers. Fuery insisted that each radio be designated with a unique signal that only he knew. This meant all updates would go only through him, and, in turn, he would pass them on to the intended receiver. The young communications expert worried too many radios using the same transmission signal would boost chances of interception. 

Hawkeye reported her location and line of sight. “Twenty-four men so far, all wearing white hooded coats. The hoods obstruct my view of their faces. But from the color of their skin, it appears to me they are not Ishvalans.”

“Not Ishvalans?”

“Fuery, listen. The wind gets stronger, and the fire will have to go out soon. It looks like these men know it’s bound to happen. They’re not attacking now, but they’re preparing to have a go at it again. Relay the information to the general,” Hawkeye sounded more serious than she did during the assault on Central City. 

“Aye,” responded Fuery, thinking the stern tone was probably because they were in Ishval this time, where buried memories pulled back those who thought they’d forgotten.

“Twenty-four men per my last count. We don’t know if there are others hiding. Ten of them have long rifles, the rest are manning seven mortars. No one among them is brown-skinned. At least this detail tells me no one among them is Ishvalan,” the sniper continued. 

“Roger that.” 

As soon as she heard the click on the radio, a loud boom emerged from the enemy lines. Just then, Hawkeye grunted at her sudden migraine, perhaps her lack of sleep for the past several weeks finally catching up.

The insurgents began their offensive again. The sun had started retreating under the sea of clouds, just as Mustang’s fire waned. The group figured out the heat emanating from the blockade was no longer as intense as it used to be, especially on the upper edges, so they aimed their mortars at high projectiles. If, from hours earlier, a mere lick of the flames extinguished their attack, then the munitions would be holding up now. 

Hawkeye saw three men setting up their weapon, trying to gauge the right angle for their plan to work. But before they could load the weapon, three shots fired.

The sharpshooter saw through them. Then, she adjusted her crosshair and fired at the remaining others, caring only to shoot non-critical areas of their bodies that would nonetheless incapacitate them. Some were shot in the palm of their hands, or their fingers, preventing them from using rifles; the others sustained gun wounds to their shoulders or their sides. The mortars’ propeller system had also broken down, significantly diminishing the group’s capabilities. The Hawk’s Eye never missed.

As this happened, Fuery contacted every unit’s commanding officer to inform them that the two Ishvalans had already secured all the civilians and casualties who stayed at the bunker with him that afternoon. For his part, Breda reported that there were no signs of an attack on the eastern and southern borders. These updates were met with relief. 

Seeing that the attack from dissidents had stopped, Hawkeye gave the communications officer the signal so Mustang could finally kill the fire. However, she chose not to disclose that the men behind enemy lines were congregating, despite their seeming immobility, as if to discuss their next course of action. To her mind, they no longer posed a grave threat.

The troop covering the general, under Havoc’s command, took their positions — all set for a possible exchange of fire once the blockade is finally extinguished. While Hawkeye’s latest information gave no indication of an attack, they needed to be sure. 

Mustang gave the cue: In exactly 60 seconds, he would be terminating his alchemic flame. Any longer than that, and there was no way they could forecast the gustiness of the desert wind.

Mentally counting down to one, the soldiers held their breaths as tensely as they held their pistols. Sweat rolled down like tears on their cheeks, despite the dusk’s cold breeze. Fuery waited on the other side of the line, mindful of any sound that may be interpreted awrily. 

_The last ten seconds._ The colors of ochre and plum were pushing the sun to disappearing. The fire was flailing, albeit weakly, struggling against its own starter. Soon, everyone found themselves under the blanket of darkness. Neither stars nor moon was present to witness what was bound to happen. 

_The last five seconds._ Hawkeye spotted a flicker of light from outside the flames. The sniper was always quick to draw her weapons, but she was no match for the unexpected. 

As the military’s synchronized counting went down to one, the building where Hawkeye made her nest exploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! 
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this! My day job has gotten more demanding so far this year, so writing this fan fic had to take a backseat. From now on, the updates may be coming in intermittently — though my goal is to post a new chapter at least once every two months. 
> 
> This chapter took a lot of effort to write because I am not so familiar with military terms or even the action genre. Add those to my limited faculty of the English language, and I get a mentally draining project before me. I wonder, sometimes, why I chose to do this. LOL. Anyway, if you spot some odd or wrong word choices, or even grammar and spelling lapses, kindly point them out for me!
> 
> I am a big Royai shipper, so the coming chapters will definitely have some of that... finally.
> 
> And, as always, I would appreciate your feedback! There are a looooot of talented writers in this fandom, and I can only aspire to write as beautifully as them. So, thanks for getting this far.


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